


The Page of Swords

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Bondage, Class Differences, Divided Loyalties, First Time, M/M, Magic, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: In which magical bondage is employed as a cure for insomnia, Mr. Norrell learns how to ask and Childermass learns how to want.
Relationships: John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell, Unrequited Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OfShoesAndShips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/gifts).



Mr. Norrell was not an even-tempered man at the best of times, but recent weeks had seen him grow more agitated than usual. There was no great mystery in this change to his temperament. Scholars may have argued about the movement of the moon and its influence over a magician’s mind. A physician might have blamed late nights and an excess of work. But in Childermass’ experience — and his experience with Mr. Norrell was greater than any physician or scholar could lay claim to — the simplest explanations are often the most persuasive. And it happened that in this case there was a very simple explanation indeed: Jonathan Strange had returned to London. 

Strange’s return had prompted a flurry of colds, headaches and nervous fits in Mr. Norrell, but they had grown worse as the weeks passed. Ever since Childermass had recounted Strange’s tales of walking the King’s Roads, Norrell had been beside himself with anxiety. Appointments had been postponed. Lunches had been cancelled. All of the mirrors in Hanover-square had been turned to face the wall or removed entirely, much to the consternation of Mr. Lascelles. But despite these precautions, his nerves would not be settled.

Mr. Norrell looked up as the library door opened, nodded at Childermass and turned his attention back to his book.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, as if speaking to himself. “I was afraid it would be a servant. I am having no end of trouble with the servants today.”

Childermass smiled, approaching Norrell’s desk. It was a smile laced with unpleasant amusement, for he was all too aware that his position in the household might change as easily as the wind. For every day that he was a trusted advisor in Mr. Norrell’s eyes, there were just as many when he was no better than a scullery maid.

“I’m told you’re too busy to go for a walk, sir.”

“Yes indeed. Far, far too busy. I wonder that anyone in this house even has time to think of such things.” Norrell looked up. As the evening light caught his face, Childermass observed the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Something dreadful is approaching, Childermass, and I do not know how to put a stop to it.”

As a matter of fact, Mr. Norrell was not alone in feeling this way. For over a year now, Childermass had sensed a growing wildness in the magic surrounding them. He observed it in the movements of the trees and the ominous whispers of the wind. Even deep within London’s maze of narrow streets and tall buildings, he felt that the air crackled with ominous intent. If such a thing was obvious to him, it must have been obvious to Mr. Norrell too. But he feared that Norrell did not sense the weight of the problem.

Norrell looked down at his book. “It is all Mr. Strange’s doing,” he said. It was a familiar refrain. “Who knows what kinds of magic he might be working now that he is left to his own devices. And worse— he plans to teach others his practices! Just imagine: All the chaos of English magic, spread all the way across the country. It does not bear thinking about.”

“And so you cannot stop thinking about it.”

“I am afraid I cannot,” said Mr. Norrell. His small hands were knotted together and his shoulders hunched low over his desk. But when he looked up, there was a strange intent in his eye, as though he wished to communicate something. “My sleep is quite disrupted, Childermass.”

“So I understand, sir.”

“If anything might be done about the problem, that would be most agreeable to me.”

“I will look into the matter,” Childermass said. Mr. Norrell’s expression shifted, a little of his tension seeming to dissolve. It was not so much a smile as a loosening of his frown. Childermass was reminded, with a pang, of their years together in Hurtfew, when Norrell would always seek him out first and without question no matter what problem he was facing. He nodded and strode to his desk, where a stack of letters awaited his attention.

It was dangerous to be too easily pleased by such a reaction, he reminded himself. Influence over his master was a valuable commodity — and all too scarce in recent years — but it could be withdrawn in an instant and was not to be relied upon. For all of the household’s shifting fortunes and friendships, Childermass remained certain that his place was secure so long as Mr. Norrell could not do without him. He certainly did not wish to land himself in a position where he could not do without Mr. Norrell. 

And so, when Norrell ducked his head and almost smiled, when he rung for Childermass before Henry Lascelles, and when he interrupted a general, as if without thought, to say, “and what do you think about that, Childermass?” Childermass strove to react as he believed a gentleman would — as though Norrell were merely giving him the consideration that was his due, and not a thing less.

Fortunately there were a great many ways for a clever servant to earn Mr. Norrell’s consideration. There were letters that merited his attention and letters best diverted away from him. There were messages that would certainly be disposed of if Henry Lascelles got his hands on them and ones that Norrell would waste hours fretting over if he was made aware of them. There were petitions from ministers and, perhaps most surprisingly, love letters from unexpected quarters. (The latter would no doubt have scandalised poor Mr. Norrell, but Childermass took no small amusement in the reading of them.) A man of business was never without occupation in Hanover-square.

And so, as Childermass went about his work, he kept an eye out for an insomniac’s remedy. He spoke with the women who lingered in yellow tents on street corners and he asked the opinions of well-to-do doctors. One young gentleman offered, with a glint in his eye, to put Mr. Norrell into a trance if Childermass was willing. It was not until days after they had parted company that Childermass learned the young man was William Hadley-Bright, former aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington and current pupil of Jonathan Strange. 

The news disconcerted him, leaving him with the wrongfooted sense of having been at a disadvantage in a long-past conversation. And it reminded him of the promise he had made to Strange. He did not regret the offer — it was hardly his choice, he had simply promised to do what the cards had already told him was his destiny — but now that the words were spoken, they hung over him. He had never considered himself disloyal to Norrell, any more than he believed himself disloyal to John Uskglass. And besides, it was not as though Norrell would not throw him over in an instant if it would bring Jonathan Strange back to Hanover-square.

In any case, Childermass was not contemplating the question of insomnia or Jonathan Strange or any of Mr. Norrell’s other troubles when he discovered the spell to bind a man to his bed. Perhaps if these matters had been on his mind, he might have been quicker on the uptake.

The spell had been copied onto a loose sheet of paper in Mr. Norrell’s small, neat hand. It must have been tucked between two volumes that had not been touched for a long time. When Mr Norrell asked Childermass to fetch him a volume of Hether-Grey’s history of the life and times of Martin Pale, the sheet had dislodged itself and come fluttering down from the shelf. Childermass picked it up, glancing over it as he crossed the room and handed the book and the spell to Mr Norrell.

“What is this?” Norrell peered up at Childermass.

“‘A spell to bind a man to his bed,’ it appears,” said Childermass, allowing some archness to creep into his tone.

“Yes, yes, I can read just as well as you can,” said Norrell. “Why am I _looking_ at it?”

“It came loose with the book. I presume it was one of Pale’s spells.”

“Certainly not! Martin Pale was hardly in the practice of magically binding his enemies. Everything he wrote upon the subject suggests that such behaviour was quite beneath him.” Norrell looked down at the paper. If Childermass were a less trusting fellow, he might have suspected Norrell of avoiding his eyes. “I cannot recall, just at this moment, where this spell came from or whyever I would have copied it out. Or why it should be out of its proper place, for that matter.”

Childermass looked down at the spell. It was an almost insultingly simple thing, requiring few ingredients and only the barest knowledge of Latin. He glanced at Norrell, who was tracing the lines of the spell, apparently unaware that he was doing so.

“Perhaps Mr. Strange was the one who-” Mr. Norrell began to say. But then he cut himself off. “No, of course not. Mr. Strange is quite misguided in his ways at present, but he would not stoop so low as to attempt such a thing.” He glanced at Childermass. “Do you not agree?”

Childermass ran his eyes over the small, neat lettering. The paper was in excellent condition. It could have been written out in the past week or so, or it could have sat undisturbed for years on the shelf. He made a noncommittal sound. “It seems to me it would be best for us to put this somewhere safe,” he said at last. 

“Yes. Yes, I believe you are right. The danger, after all, does not lie in the spell’s existence but in the possibility of it falling into the wrong hands.” 

Childermass reached out and tucked the sheet between the pages of Hether-Grey’s book. “There,” he said. “Now it needn’t trouble you anymore.” 

“Yes,” said Norrell. He did not sound any less troubled. “Thank you, Childermass.”

Childermass returned to his own desk, where he was totalling up the household accounts for the week. He settled himself, taking up his pen and intending to resume his work. But he found he could not sit comfortably. He had the curious sensation of two small eyes on him, as though Norrell were watching him from across the room. But when he looked up, he saw that Norrell was still lost in his book.

* * *

Childermass put the incident out of his mind for half of a week before the spell made its way, quite unexpectedly, into the kitchen.

Viewed from a distance, it could just as easily have been an order for the grocer or a set of instructions left by the cook. It appeared to have been left untouched on the kitchen table for days. It looked, in fact, as though it might have been left there for weeks, though that was truly impossible. The only thing about it that drew Childermass’s attention was the sight of Norrell’s careful handwriting, a thing rarely seen in the servants’ quarters.

Picking up the folded sheet of paper, Childermass looked around to see if anyone else had observed it. But Dido had her head in some sewing and the cook was bent over a pot of stew. Shaking his head, Childermass made his way to the library. 

Norrell did not look up when Childermass dropped the folded-up spell onto the desk.

“And what is this?” Norrell’s eyes were fixed on his work.

“A spell to bind a man to his bed,” Childermass said, allowing enough irritation to slip into his tone that Norrell did look up, his breath hitching a little at the word ‘bind’.

“Ah,” he said. 

“I found it next to a pile of dirty linens. Thought it best not to let Hannah get her hands on it. You wouldn’t want one of the maids trying out a spell like this, would you?”

Mr. Norrell looked nonplussed by this remark, as though the notion of Hannah or Dido stumbling across a spell and attempting to cast it was so outside the range of his imagination that Childermass might as well have warned against the dangers of Lord Liverpool stripping off his clothes and marching into Parliament. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed, as if to placate Childermass. But he did not reach for the folded-up spell.

Childermass peered at him. “Are you well, sir?”

“My sleep is no better than before,” Norrell replied. Hether-Grey’s book was open on his desk. The chapter occupying Mr. Norrell’s attention appeared to concern a dispute between Doctor Pale and Francis Pevensey. “Last night I tossed and turned for what felt like hours. And today I find myself quite distracted.” He glanced down at the spell and then back up at Childermass. “I have an idea that this may be Mr. Strange’s malign influence.”

“Mr Strange is working on his book,” Childermass replied, with a firmness he did not entirely feel. The gleam in Hadley-Bright’s eye was still keen in his memory. “Whatever threat he poses to you, it lies within those pages. Not between your sheets.”

Mr. Norrell swallowed hard. “There is no reason to assume he might not assault me on two fronts,” he retorted. “Mr. Strange is an impulsive man, is he not? It would take patience to wait until publication to exact whatever revenge he imagines is his due. And when has Mr. Strange ever exercised that particular virtue?”

Childermass sighed. “What exactly are you afraid of, sir?”

Norrell did not respond, but his eyes skittered down to the paper that lay folded on his desk. Childermass nodded. 

“Perhaps you’d better work on a counter spell then, hadn’t you?”

“Perhaps I had,” Norrell said. But there was something peculiar in his voice. He frowned at the book he was working from, then looked up at Childermass. “Thank you for returning the spell, I can’t imagine how it might have made its way out of the library.”

Childermass inclined his head and left.

* * *

For three days, Mr Norrell complained of worsening sleep. The tossing and turning that had affected him at the start of the week had escalated to a miserable thrashing, loud enough that more than once a servant passing his bedroom in the night was startled by the sound of a thump coming from behind the door. 

“It is Mr. Strange’s handiwork, I cannot doubt it,” Mr Norrell said over breakfast. The remark was not directed to anyone in particular, but since Childermass was the only person in the room, he supposed it was meant for him.

“What shall we do about it, then?” he asked, knowing full well that he would not get a direct answer. 

Childermass already had an idea of what Mr. Norrell was considering, and he did not believe it would go well. He had woken breathless that morning, haunted by dreams of kneeling fully clothed in the river Hurt, attempting to hammer the rushing water into crumbling soil as the chill seeped through this shirt and breeches, the mud and soil rising up to swallow him. 

Mr. Norrell chewed his toast morosely. 

“I have never found a satisfying remedy to sleeplessness,” he said. “Many of the Aureates considered mental and physical exhaustion an aid in their work. Thomas Godbless often described the magic that might be attained when a magician’s faculties are outside his control.”

“Seems unlikely that Strange would choose to put you in such a mental state,” Childermass observed. “Losing your senses would only be to your advantage.”

“Mr. Strange knows very well that Godbless and I are at odds on the question of sleeplessness,” Mr. Norrell replied. There was an accusatory note in his voice, which suggested that Childermass also ought to be aware of his feelings on the matter. “I am of the opinion that a magician is at his most capable when he is in full control of his senses. It would be just like Strange to try and rob me of them.”

Childermass remained unconvinced by Mr. Norrell’s line of reasoning but did not argue the point further. 

“I have business in Hertfordshire. If I’m away for a night, will you survive?”

“Of course I will survive,” Norrell snapped. Then he pursed his lips. “What sort of business?”

“The usual business. A church service was interrupted when the organ began playing of its own accord. The girl who cleans the pipes admitted to having grown bored during the service and imagined the music to entertain herself. She says she was as surprised as anyone else when the pipes began playing her composition.”

“Ah,” said Norrell. He appeared to relax a fraction. “That can wait.”

“Are you sure? If word gets out that magic is interrupting people’s prayer, it will not be good for you.”

“It can wait. Magic that interferes with the church is a serious matter, of course. But that is presuming that it was indeed magic. It seems a great deal more probable to me that this was a child making mischief and then seeking an excuse.” He did not ask whether Childermass agreed.

“Very well, then,” said Childermass, rising.

“You may ride out tomorrow morning,” said Norrell. “If, that is to say, I am sufficiently restored. I hope I will sleep better tonight.” His eyes flickered up to meet Childermass’, then darted away. He took up his teaspoon and made a great show of occupying himself with the sugar dish.

“Very well, then,” said Childermass again. He did not wait to be dismissed, walking up to his small room with heavy strides, sending housemaids and footmen skittering in his path. He felt as though he were being pulled inexorably down a treacherous path and that Mr. Norrell would deny for ever and ever that he was the one leading the way. 

Upstairs, he sat at his little desk, his eyes on the cards of Marseilles, which sat in an unobtrusive pile on the table. He reached for them, only half willing to hear their opinion of his current circumstances, but he did not have time to see what they foretold. Immediately after lifting the deck, he dropped it again with a low curse.

The cards lay in an unruly heap, some flipped over and others spread face-down. Beneath the deck, waiting to be discovered, lay a neatly folded piece of paper. Childermass did not need to unfold it to see the spell that was printed upon it in Mr. Norrell’s small, neat hand.

He stood, irritated in ways he could not fathom, and pocketed the spell. He gave the cards a final, weary glance. The Valet D’epee lay face up, taunting him. He scowled at it.

“Very well, then,” he said.

* * *

It was not that Childermass objected, precisely. If Mr. Norrell had taken the trouble to seek out his opinion, he might well have suggested it, in fact. But Mr. Norrell did not seek out Childermass’ counsel as reliably as he once did. As far as Childermass was concerned, that was half the trouble in the first place.

But for all of his irritation, Childermass was not unwilling. Perhaps, he thought as he filled an old bucket with water, he would even enjoy it. He could not deny that it was gratifying to be of use. But still, he would have preferred an invitation.

Hanover-square was all asleep. Lucas, leaning yawning against a side table in the corridor, tipped Childermass a nod as he passed. Outside, though, carriages still clattered across the cobbles and, beyond the square, beggars still gathered at street lamps. London was never truly still. 

The city had its uses. A man could get lost there, which suited Childermass all too well. London was not agreeable to Mr. Norrell’s temperament, but it was necessary for his work. And he seemed to breathe a little easier, finding himself loosed from the reminders of John Uskglass that one finds scattered throughout the North. That pleased Childermass less, but there was no changing his master’s mind on the matter of the Raven King. And no need to attempt it, for John Uskglass himself could change a man’s mind even more surely than Childermass.

Childermass moved silently across the upper landing, seeking out the shadows in the unlit corners. He paused outside Mr. Norrell’s bedchamber, hoping for a hint of what might be happening within. He listened, breath caught in his throat, for the sounds of sleep, but he was not so fortunate. From behind the door, he could hear every indication of a disagreeable night: The rustle of blankets. Small, exasperated sighs. A flicker of light in the crack of the door.

No, Childermass concluded. Mr Norrell was not sound asleep. He glanced down at his bucket of water, tempted to set it aside and walk straight into the bedroom. That was what Mr. Norrell wanted, was it not? A decisive assault. For the thing to be done so he could rest easily.

But the words echoed in his mind, twisting his mouth in a bitter smile: _It is Mr. Strange’s handiwork, I cannot doubt it_.

No, not even Childermass could not give Mr. Norrell precisely what he wanted. But he would give him the closest thing and then perhaps they might all have some peace.

Upstairs in his room, he set the bucket carefully on his table, his eyes landing once again on his deck of cards. A disconcerting nervousness was skittering through him. He was not accustomed to feeling uncertain, particularly not in matters concerning Mr Norrell. But he was hesitant to seek out the cards’ judgement in this. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he did not wish to be told the truth of his situation quite so bluntly. It seemed there was a little of Mr. Norrell in him too, after all these years in the man’s service.

Still, he wished to be as sure of his plan as possible before he took action. He passed a hand over the water, speaking a word of revelation. It was a simple charm, and deliberately chosen: The sort of spell that Norrell would guard against as a matter of course. But as Childermass’ hand swept over the bucket, the waters cleared without a whisper of resistance. There was Mr. Norrell in his bed, blankets pulled up to his chin and his eyes wide open.

As Childermass watched, Norrell seemed to sense the presence of magic in the air. He half sat up, looking about the room.

“Mr. Strange? Is that you?” There was none of the dread that Childermass had heard in his voice for the past few days. None of the alarm Mr. Norrell would truly feel in the presence of an intruder. Instead, a note of quavering hope echoed like a struck bell in an empty room. Childermass winced, unfolded the paper on his desk and began to murmur the words of the spell.

At first it felt like nothing at all. Mr. Norrell lay tensed tensed under his blankets, all anxious expectation. Childermass, for his part, was not sure exactly what to do with himself. His hands were empty, physically at least. But he could feel the warmth of a body close to his, and in his mind he could conjure up the knowledge of a force, taut and solid and flexible. And when he reached with his mind, he heard Norrell yelp at the contact. 

There, he thought. Let us see Jonathan Strange produce a sound like that.

The hands and arms first, he decided, looping the invisible cord around Norrell’s wrist and yanking it down. Norrell made a small sound that was half outrage and half relief, and that was all the permission Childermass needed. He pinned Norrell’s other wrist, imagining himself there in the room, where he could press his palms against Norrell’s pale skin and feel his pulse jump beneath them. But that, surely, would not have been acceptable, so he scrubbed the thought away. Instead, he watched, grateful at least that Norrell was permitting it. The spell could have been performed blind, after all. 

Norrell’s eyes were open now, darting about the room. His cheeks coloured despite the silver of moonlight that fell across the bed. Childermass cast his mind outwards and sought out his other wrist, dragging it down against the mattress. There was no resistance, only a soft exhale in the cold air. Norrell waited until the spell had wound tightly around his wrist before he attempted to struggle, and even then he was careful about it.

“You will not get away with this,” he whispered as Childermass wound invisible cords about his elbows, fastening them loosely against the bed. Good, Childermass thought, keep quiet. No sense accidentally alerting any of the servants to this piece of business. “You imagine yourself a superior magician. You believe that you can overturn the workings of England merely by— _oh_!”

That was quite enough of that. Childermass heard enough about Jonathan Strange at the best of times. He reached through the darkness and seized an ankle, pleased to find that his dexterity was improving. Norrell allowed him to take hold of it, and even seemed to breathe easier as the spell tightened about him. But when Childermass yanked his other foot in the opposite direction, spreading his legs beneath the sheets, Norrell did not move so easily. This was a pig-headed way of going about things, Childermass thought with irritation. There was no way to ask if he was moving too quickly, nor even any way to be truly sure that Norrell knew it was him. 

He forced himself to slow, concentrating on the rise and fall of Norrell’s chest. He followed each breath until the two of them were breathing in sympathy.

The room grew still. In the darkness, Norrell shifted, as though trying to rise, and found himself still pinned by the magical bonds. Childermass held them, his grip firm but not taut, his eyes on Norrell’s.

After a long moment, Norrell worked up the nerve to speak again. “Are you still there?”

“Aye, here I am,” Childermass murmured in the darkness of his own room. He reached out through the empty space, finding the work left unfinished. He moved gently, pressing a bent knee flat against the bed and binding it in place. It was a curious sensation, to move over Norrell’s body in this state. He could not quite feel the physicality of it, but he could sense the shape and weight of it. He could detect, without feeling, a tremble of warmth that must have been his master’s.

He was not quite sure what Norrell felt. When he imagined pressing down upon Norrell’s chest, he could not know whether Norrell felt the broad flat of an unseen palm or whose hands he might be imagining. Perhaps it was more like a shapeless force, allowing no room for thoughts of one man or another. It might even resemble the spirit of John Uskglass, Childermass thought with a grim smile. If Mr. Norrell must insist on thinking of someone else, it ought to at least be a Northerner.

Whoever was occupying his mind, Mr. Norrell had gone quite still now. He shivered despite the weight of the covers, spread out and pinned like an insect. His heart was pounding, so insistent that Childermass could feel it pulsing through the magic that was wound about him. But he did not seem fearful. There was a curious, muted excitement running through him. His breath came in trembling gasps. 

Childermass concentrated his energy on Norrell’s chest. He allowed his eyes to fall closed, focusing on the thudding heartbeat at the centre of the house. In that moment, with everything fallen away except for that pulse and the sound of their shared breath in the chilly darkness, Childermass could imagine that they were in Hurtfew. He could place them in a different room, more remote than London and yet somehow less lonely. He could almost, if he concentrated, trace Norrell’s quickening pulse and remind himself that beneath all the layers of magician and master, there would always be Gilbert Norrell. Norrell would never quite deserve the half of what he had, no, but he would never have all of what he wanted. And somehow that made him easier to forgive, at least some of the time.

He tightened a final invisible rope across Norrell’s chest. Fastened it over his heart. Listened to the small, breathless sound of surrender. Perhaps that sound wasn’t entirely for him, but he knew how to make do with what he had. If he was in there, he thought, he could make that point more clearly. He could run a palm down Norrell’s chest, trace the vulnerable insides of his thighs and draw out more of those halting breaths. The thought must have occurred to Norrell, because he shifted against his bonds, chin tilting upwards and baring his throat in a way that was almost a plea.

“You could ask, you know,” Childermass murmured into his empty room. He allowed his eyes to fall closed, trying to imagine what that might sound like. But Mr. Norrell rarely asked for anything he was not certain he would receive, and it seemed that at this moment he was uncertain. 

Childermass sighed. He applied a little pressure, feeling another answering gasp more clearly than he heard it. Too late he realised that the magic had wrapped itself around him as surely as it had wrapped around Norrell. He could still move and he could still pull away, but he would leave a little of himself in that room whether he liked it or not. 

“Come along,” he bit out. He sent a whisper of sensation across the back of Norrell’s neck, watching him tremble against the rippling water. “If you won’t say it, how am I to do it?”

It occurred to him that Norrell had not asked for any of this. Norrell had always relied upon him to do what must be done without being asked. But now, as Norrell’s lips parted in a half-sob that was almost — but not quite — a request, Childermass found that for once he could not take action without permission. A long moment shivered between them and Childermass cursed under his breath, for in truth it was not only Mr. Norrell whose body had been affected by the spell.

“Ask me,” Childermass said. Too late he realised that he was furious with his employer, with Jonathan Strange and, most of all, with his own foolishness. He twisted his grip on the invisible bonds, tightening them a fraction.

But Norrell must not have heard him — or chosen not to hear him — because he remained silent. Childermass exhaled shakily and released his grip, watching Norrell sink back against the mattress with an exhale of frustration. The magic was wrapped around him more loosely now, still tight enough to hold him in place, but not so constricting. He looked disappointed. Well, Childermass thought irritably, that made two of them.

A long silence. Finally Norrell spoke, his voice quiet and brittle. “I believe that will be quite enough for one night.”

Childermass did not disagree. He made a sharp gesture and Norrell’s wide eyes shattered on the surface of the water as the image was dashed away. Childermass felt a tug across the magic that still looped about them, as Norrell put up a final token struggle before falling back into its loose grip. 

He remained in his chair, eyes on nothing in particular, until he felt Norrell’s heart rate slow and his muscles grow slack, held still within the spell. When he felt certain Norrell had fallen asleep, he gradually allowed the magic to unspool, the invisible cords loosening and growing slack between them. But he did not rise from his seat.

For the first night in a long month, Hanover-square was almost entirely asleep. But Childermass himself did not get to bed until the early hours of the morning, and he did not sleep until even later than that. He felt as though something had been set loose within him and then cut short. All of his edges felt rubbed-over with sand. Worst of all, he felt certain that he had seen this coming and known the danger of it and that he had somehow walked into it all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Lascelles had a great many opinions on Tuesday morning. Childermass had always prided himself on his patience, but this morning he felt a great urge to cross the library, seize Lascelles by the arm and escort him out so that he might speak privately with Mr. Norrell.

It might have been easier, he thought, if Norrell showed the slightest indication that he wished to speak. Mr. Norrell did not conceal his feelings well, and he had fixed Childermass with a curious stare over breakfast. He had continued to cast glances in Childermass’ direction over the course of the morning, but when Childermass had caught him alone in the library, Mr. Norrell had ducked his head and said nothing.

But now Lascelles had turned the subject to his correspondence with an old friend from university who claimed to have vital knowledge of Strange’s activities in Soho. So naturally Mr. Norrell’s attention had been wholly captured and Childermass did not warrant a second glance. And, Childermass was forced to admit to himself, it seemed unlikely that Norrell would thank him for turning Lascelles out.

“It seems quite certain now,” Lascelles said, “that Strange is working all sorts of magic. One hears no end of it. Every person of good breeding who has seen him since the tragic passing of his wife reports that he is a changed man.”

“But the book,” said Norrell. “I must know how he progresses with it.” 

“Oh, the book,” said Mr. Lascelles, with a tone that indicated he was not much concerned either way with the book’s progress.

“The book should be our chief concern. It is one thing for Mr. Strange to perform magic on his own—” here Norrell paused for a moment as though a thought had struck him. “That is not to say that his own magic ought to be encouraged, of course, merely that he is a magician. It is in his nature to do magic. But the real danger is in this book of his. If he has his way, the whole of Britain will be filled up with untutored magicians, and what will become of us then?”

By the time Mr. Norrell had finished this convoluted speech, his expression was quite wretched. Mr. Lascelles, for his part, looked quite put out.

“You, of course, know best in these matters, sir. But might I suggest that for simplicity’s sake, we agree that we are opposed to all of Strange’s activities? None of it is to our advantage, after all, whether he is doing magic or writing books or teaching magic to young men of low quality.”

“Young men?” Mr. Norrell sounded politely aghast.

“Indeed,” said Lascelles with a flourish. “Mr. Norrell, do you believe that all you have taught Mr. Strange about English magic and its secrets ought to be turned over to a dancing-master?”

Childermass was little inclined to grant Henry Lascelles much goodwill, but even he must admit that when the man chose to apply himself to a task, he was skilful. Soon, Mr. Norrell was listening with visible horror to the news of Strange’s most promising young pupils.

Childermass waited, his eyes on the stack of papers before him. There was a note from a gravedigger in the west, who wrote in impatient tones and demanded to arrange a meeting. A lady in Bath claimed to be a novelist with a great deal of interest in the workings of Hanover-square. A judge in Northampton wrote that he had been alarmed by recent discussion in the press of the revival of a long-forgotten magical court and that he very much hoped Mr. Norrell would advise the government against taking such a step. It seemed laughable to Childermass that all these people believed Mr. Norrell had the slightest interest in their concerns, or in anyone else’s for that matter. The only thing Mr. Norrell cared about in that moment, it was quite apparent, was news of Jonathan Strange.

Childermass stood abruptly, chair scraping against the library floor. Lascelles looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Norrell also looked up, his expression pinched with an emotion Childermass would ordinarily read as irritation.

“Where are you off to?” he said.

“I told you yesterday. I must examine the disturbances at the church in Hertfordshire.” Childermass shot Norrell a look. “I believe I’m right in thinking you had a restful night’s sleep, sir.”

Norrell straightened, his expression hardening. “Go along, then,” he said. “And be quick about it. I have much need of you here.”

Childermass bit down on a sharp retort of his own. As though Norrell had the slightest idea of what he did and where he was most needed. He inclined his head instead. “I’ll be back by evening, Mr. Norrell. Mr Lascelles.”

As he left the library, he heard Lascelles exhale daintily. “I must say, it’s about time we had a word about that man of yours,” Lascelles said. Childermass increased his pace. He had no desire to hear what Norrell might have to say about him once his back was turned.

* * *

The rain was driving when Childermass rode out of London and it only grew worse as cobbled streets turned to country roads. The skies were heavy with rain, dark clouds threatening worse to come, just as the rumbling of the ground promised worse still. England was changing beneath all of their feet. There were greater things at stake than Mr. Norrell’s sleeping arrangements.

Childermass wiped his face with the wet arm of his sleeve. This was what came of foolishness. The one advantage he’d always been able to count on was his clear sight. He had known the world well enough to know that even the most trusted servant was still a servant, that being indispensable would only get a man so far and that Norrell had never been his only master. For twenty-six years, that had been enough to keep him whole despite the indignities of his position.

And yet here he was, riding face-first into the blinding rain, the wind biting at his cheeks, and his heart in his throat at the thought of a small man shut up within his little fortress of books. A man who had only the slightest understanding of how the magic he loved so well was turning and rising up and would soon enough outgrow them all.

In the old stone church, the vicar’s wife brought an untidy young girl before him. She wore what looked to be her neatest dress, but it was still worn through at the knees and elbows. Her hair was escaping from its ribbons, despite the woman’s best efforts.

“You may leave us alone,” Childermass said to the vicar’s wife.

“I am entitled to oversee any business that goes on in this church,” she replied, with a tone that suggested she knew Childermass’ type all too well. He felt sure that if he were not on business from the first magician of the land, she would not be so courteous with him,

“In that case, I must ask you to give me a moment’s privacy with the girl.” The woman cast a nervous eye in the girl’s direction and Childermass softened. “She looks like she could scream the place down if I were to cause her any distress. And you have my word that I will not.”

The vicar’s wife glanced at the girl, then back at Childermass, then took hold of the girl’s hands. “If you have the slightest need of me, Imelda, you will call me at once,” she said softly, and the girl nodded. 

When they were alone, the girl scowled at Childermass.

“Are you supposed to be the great magician?”

“I am the great magician’s man,” said Childermass, who still felt a touch unsteady from his ride. He took a seat in a wooden pew. “Now tell me what you did to the pipe organs, and mind that if you lie to me, I will know it.”

“I don’t believe you will,” she said. “I’m cleverer than people think.”

“Well, I know that is true enough. You’ve sent half the congregation into fits over devilry and the other half are convinced you ought to be hanged for blasphemy.”

“Oh, they’ll find something else to amuse them soon enough. I can hardly fault them for being bored, can I? That was how I learned to do my magic, after all.” 

She fixed Childermass with a haughty expression, somehow contriving to look down her nose upon him despite being half a foot shorter, even with Childermass seated beside her. This girl would be a great deal of trouble to him in the years to come if he was not careful.

He did not allow this revelation to show upon his face. Instead he gestured to the old organ that stood in the back of the church. 

“Very well, then. Show me what you can do.”

If she could not do it, it would not exactly disprove her claim. Childermass had known enough magicians and performed enough spells of his own to know that magic was a temperamental thing and liable to desert a person when it was most needed. Still, there was no need to say as much. He sat back and watched as she tossed her head, squared her shoulders and squinted most forcefully at the pipes.

Silence. Childermass watched, impassive, as she made a second attempt. 

“I could look away if that would help,” said Childermass. He kept all hint of gentleness from his voice, for he had a suspicion that such a tone would only agitate this child. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Magic is magic. It’s in the air whether you’re looking at me or not, I just have to—” she made an irritated, clutching gesture.

“You just have to catch hold of it,” Childermass said with interest. It was not the way Mr. Norrell chose to describe magic. But he had seen some of the aureates refer to it in similar terms, as something that rode on the wind — something that could be harnessed like rain or the force of the tides. It was dangerous talk. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Try again.”

The girl looked at him steadily. If gentleness would have infuriated her, this hint of genuine interest from Mr. Norrell’s emissary appeared to embolden her. She straightened, turned to face the pipes again and raised a hand. She made a fist, as though gathering something that surrounded her, and Childermass felt the pull of magic shifting about him. His head spun and he was grateful to be seated. And then Imelda opened her palm and sent a jolt through the room. 

When Childermass became aware of what was going on, he found himself bent double, gasping for air. The candles about the church were flickering, some burning brighter while others were extinguished entirely. The world had been knocked on its side, and when Childermass righted himself, he could hear the murmur of chords echoing against the stone walls.

“There,” said the girl. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m no liar.”

Childermass stood. He crossed the stone floor to study the organ, which kept playing regardless of his scrutiny. For all that he could sense the magic about him, he was not about to be taken in by a cheap trick. He searched all around it, examining the pipes and windchest for hidden mechanisms. But it was a half-hearted search. The girl watched him from across the room, any nervousness fallen away.

Childermass returned to his seat beside her.

“What do you know of Mr. Norrell?” he said.

She shrugged. “I like the other one better, but Mrs. Davidson says he’s unreliable and that your magician is more sensible.”

Neither of them were half as sensible as Childermass would have liked, but he did not say so. Instead he said, “if I tell you what I think, will you keep it to yourself?”

“Depends on what you tell me.”

“That kind of honesty is no use to a talented girl.”

“Then I will lie better in future.”

“Good. It is clear to me that you are a magician. And a skilled one at that. Now, here is what I will tell Mr. Norrell: ‘I rode up to see what was happening in the church. It seems some older boys were playing a trick on the young lady and she imagined that the piano was playing by magic.’ You will be in no trouble, Mr. Norrell will not turn his attention here again and I would advise you not to seek it out.”

She scowled at that. “You want to hide me away.”

“I want you to continue undisturbed,” said Childermass. “There are a great many kinds of magic that my master does not approve of. I cannot say that I understand how you work yours, but I can say for certain that it is not a method that would please him.”

“If he does not like it, he will have to learn to live with it. I will not be stopped.”

Childermass sighed. “He will have more hope of stopping you if he attempts it now.” He stood. “English magic does not begin and end with Gilbert Norrell. If you have any sense — and it seems to me you have a great deal — you will bide your time.”

“Is that what you do?” She fixed him with a curious stare. “If you’re his man, why would you help me?”

“I am his man, but I am my own man too. It is not as contradictory as it sounds. Not to followers of the Raven King, at any rate.” 

It was an easy enough answer, and one that had always come naturally to Childermass. It was, after all, the truth. But he could hear a new sourness in his voice, one that he did not like. A man could be worn thin, pulling himself in too many directions at once. And he was not the only one balancing his allegiances.

The reverend’s wife gave him an uneasy look as she guided him back to the stables. “Will Mr. Norrell know what to do about her?”

“The last thing she needs is his interference,” he said. “Encourage her to keep practicing. Not during church services, mind you, and not where people might notice. And if you find yourself in need of help, send for me, not for Mr. Norrell.” His mouth curled. “I can be found at the same address.”

She frowned. For a moment he wondered if she might ask about Jonathan Strange — or, in fact, if he ought to mention Strange himself. But she held her tongue and so did Childermass. The world would change at its own pace, he supposed. No sense hurrying it along.

Brewer was waiting patiently in the stable and snorted appreciatively when Childermass patted his neck. How much easier it must be, Childermass thought as he hoisted himself into the saddle, to run where you’re pointed and do as you’re bid with no thoughts on the matter yourself. Brewer did his work well and was grateful to be fed and watered. Would it not be so much easier to follow the course laid out for your kind?

He tucked the knowledge of the girl and the organ and the reverend’s wife away. Useful information, he decided, but best kept from Norrell for the time being. Not that she might not make herself known or seek out Jonathan Strange. Magicians were remarkably bad at keeping secrets, Childermass had found. Even the cleverest of them could be read as easily as a book of magic.

He was reminded, all of a sudden, of Norrell’s eyes on him in the library. That searching gaze. He had taken it for a sign that Norrell was trying to gauge how to approach him after what had passed between them in the night. But it occurred to him now that perhaps he was just as transparent as the rest of them. That Mr. Norrell was not silently asking him a question, but had instead seen an answer he had not thought to look for before. 

It was not a reassuring thought. And it was not a singular one, for now Childermass’ mind was filled with unwanted memories: Of Norrell’s soft exhale in his empty room, of his bitten-off sentences that were half commands and half entreaties, of the distant sense of a body waiting and unguarded. Mr. Norrell had offered him everything, he thought bitterly, except for an invitation.

He sighed and turned his face to the stinging rain. The midday sky was overcast and the road was thick with mud. He was expected home before nightfall. The rest would be settled in due course.

* * *

By the time Childermass returned to the library, Mr. Lascelles had gone and the candles were lit. Norrell looked up, frowning as though at the state of Childermass, though Childermass had changed out of his muddy boots and coat.

“You certainly took your time,” Norrell said. “I have been all day without your assistance.”

“Have you needed any thing in particular?” Childermass asked, knowing well enough that if Norrell had a truly urgent need, he had ways of sending for him. He took a seat at his usual desk, casting a dark gaze across the room.

“That is hardly the point. I _might_ have required you at any time.”

“Well, I am here now,” said Childermass. “Through wind and storm I have carried myself back to you. So what can I do for you, Mr. Norrell?”

Norrell looked down at his book.

“I am not in any mood to be trifled with,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Nor am I, sir.”

Childermass stood, pushing his chair out from beneath the desk. He crossed the library floor with heavy footsteps. At long last, Norrell looked up. There was a faint tremor in his bearing, which reminded Childermass of the night before. Childermass braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward.

“I trust you slept well last night?”

Norrell inched back against his chair. He set down his book, the better to knot his hands together. He would not meet Childermass’ gaze. Childermass smiled, something unpleasant twisting within him.

“You certainly haven’t complained.” 

“I do not complain. Not without good cause.”

“Every morning this week I’ve heard nothing but grumbling from you.” 

“It has been a particularly trying week.”

“So anyone might reasonably assume you slept comfortably.”

“I wish you would not go on so,” Norrell said. His eyes were fixed upon his hands. “It is indelicate of you to speak in such a way.”

And there it was. The clenched fist at the heart of Childermass uncurled, just a little. He allowed his smile to widen and he leaned in closer.

“There are a great many delicate men in the world, Mr. Norrell. Mr. Lascelles is delicate, in his way. Drawlight imagined himself to be delicate. The man who runs the asylum in Starecroft is all delicacy.” Norrell still would not look at him, and Childermass wanted more than anything else to reach across and angle his jaw just so. He gripped the desk all the tighter. “But I do not believe that is what you want from me. Now, will you tell me how your night went?”

“There is nothing to tell,” said Norrell. His voice was high and tight. “I slept. What more can you wish to hear?”

Childermass inclined his head, fixing his employer with an impassive gaze. Mr. Norrell stared at him for a long moment and then made a sound of exasperation.

“I say there is nothing to tell.” He rose to his feet, perhaps attempting to regain some control of the situation, but in truth he looked as though he might be swallowed by the room. “You already know the whole of it. Must I speak it aloud? Will you not be happy until I am utterly humiliated?”

“ _You_ are humiliated?” Childermass demanded. He laughed aloud, shocked by the audacity of it. “Yes, I suppose you are the injured party in all of this, as always.”

“I should have thought that you could be trusted to be discreet. You are the last person I would have expected to prejudice yourself against certain predilections—” Mr. Norrell began, and then broke off, as though he disliked the word. “That is to say, I think, inclinations. No, but even that is too strong a term for it.” He looked most put out.

“Desires,” suggested Childermass.

Mr. Norrell turned pale, as though the very notion that he might possess something as commonplace as a desire was outrageous to him. Childermass did not speak. Instead he watched as Mr. Norrell’s face grew small and pinched.

“I can see now that I have granted you too much liberty,” he said. Childermass raised an eyebrow and he continued. “You are an intelligent man, Childermass, and I hope I see your value better than most. But even the most lenient of employers must have his limits.”

“So must the most patient of servants,” Childermass returned. He stepped closer, uncertain whether he intended the approach as intimidation or conciliation. Norrell’s small eyes widened and he flinched backwards. “Mr Norrell, I am more than willing to assist you in this, as in everything else. But you must ask me for my help.”

Norrell looked appalled by the prospect. 

“I mean it, sir,” Childermass pressed. “I am more talented than I let on, and I can give you what you want. Or as close as you can hope for.” Norrell’s eyes briefly closed and Childermass winced in sympathy. “But I must have it from you directly.”

“Childermass, that is enough.”

“There is no shame in wanting a thing,” Childermass said, laying a hand on Norrell’s wrist. Norrell drew back his hand as though he had been scalded.

“And what is it that you want? Do you imagine that if you bully me into speech, I will confess all manner of tender feelings for you? You of all people must know they do not exist.” He broke off, looking stricken. Childermass took a step backwards, heart thudding in his chest. He heard a distant, ugly laugh and recognised it as his own. 

Mr. Norrell was staring at him, as though he were horrified to hear himself speak. But he continued. “They do not. I take no pleasure in saying it. It is abominable of you to force it from me. But if you wish to be assured that an ill-mannered, half-domesticated servant and his— his _attentions_ are every thing I have ever dreamed of, I fear I must disappoint you.”

Childermass’ chest rose and fell. He felt as though he had taken a blow to the chest, but one which he could not feel and which had not quite knocked him off his feet. It was hardly a revelation, after all. It was not even a disappointment, precisely, for a man as clever as Childermass could surely not be the love-struck idiot Norrell was describing. He was still laughing, he realised. A nasty, tattered kind of laugh. Norrell was looking at him with an expression that was half pained and half furious.

“Well, sir,” Childermass said, attempting to pull himself together. “I suppose I must thank you. I dare say that’s the most truthful thing you’ve said in all of our long history.” 

He bared his teeth and left the room.

* * *

Childermass passed through the house in a daze. His heart was pounding. All around him, the usual bustle of Hanover-square was muted. It seemed to him as though he were walking through shadows, though he knew he could be seen quite plainly. A minister responsible for agriculture, who had somehow not been cleared out for the evening, bumped into him and mumbled something about the magician’s ill-kept house. Childermass brushed past him without a pause.

It was not until he had reached his room at the top of the house that he allowed himself to exhale. He sat heavily at his desk and passed his hand over the cards. The Ace of Wands had landed upside-down when the desk was disturbed. It lay, wobbly-lined and threadbare, staring up at him.

“You may keep your opinions to yourself,” Childermass said.

His hand hesitated over the cards, but the thought of his past and present blunders laid out before him in his own ink sent a shudder through him. The bucket of water was still sitting on the desk too, and Childermass recoiled a little at the sight of it. He passed a hand over its surface, curious despite himself to see what Norrell might be up to in his library, but the water filled up with dark clouds.

Childermass sat back heavily. He may not have had a clear invitation, but the denial was unquestionable. He sighed and leaned down to pull off his boots. He still felt restless — as though he could walk for miles, in fact — but he had the unnerving sense that if he allowed himself to begin walking, he might never return to Hanover-square. And he did not need to consult the cards to know that his business with Mr. Norrell was not yet done.

Was John Uskglass watching from somewhere in faerie? He must think very little of his servant. Childermass had long believed that his purpose was to balance his master’s interests with his own and with those of the Raven King. He had spent decades, in fact, constructing a delicate edifice that could contain all three of their squabbling demands, and now the previous night’s entertainment had unbalanced the whole affair. The only question was, could it be righted before it crashed to the ground?

Well, there was another question. Was he ready to strike out and dedicate himself to the Raven King alone? Or was it time to take up Jonathan Strange’s offer of an education? The thought had a cruel kind of appeal, he would not deny it. But it was not a question he was prepared to ask himself yet. 

Instead he began to undress, feeling as though he had been wearing the same clothes for weeks. His shirt and waistcoat were heavy about his shoulders. There was a hum of static in the air. If he were not accustomed to detecting hints of magic, he might have wondered if someone was playing a trick on him. He froze, waistcoat half unbuttoned.

“Not now,” he snapped at the air, not certain whether he was addressing Mr. Norrell, the Raven King or if he’d lost his senses entirely and was speaking to no one but himself. The sensation dulled and then withdrew entirely. He shrugged out of his clothes, furious at the prospect that he might be observed but determined not to allow such a thing to change his habits. Once he was in bed, the room lit only by a candle, he glared up at the quivering blackness.

Oh, he hadn’t imagined it. If it wasn’t there before, he could feel it now. The darkness shifted, so subtly it might have been the flicker of the light or a trick of Childermass’ vision. This was not the violent uprooting he had experienced before his injury or even the half-controlled, impulsive magic Imelda had performed in the church. It was closer to the kind of magic he could sense from distant rooms whenever Mr. Norrell was working — so familiar that it was hardly noticeable. But now it was tentatively probing the boundaries of his room.

“Go on, then,” said Childermass. “If you have something to say to me, then make yourself heard or make yourself scarce.”

Silence. But it was no ordinary silence. This silence was somehow attempting to ask him a question, but it was not one that Childermass could fathom. He propped himself upon his elbows, curious despite himself.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the greatest magician of the age? You can communicate better than this.” He bit off a harsh laugh. “Or would you have me believe your skills can’t surpass those of a half-domesticated servant?”

The candle flickered petulantly on Childermass’ bedside then it went out entirely. He glanced at it with some irritation then lay back. There was a wordless frustration hanging in the air, as potent as lightning not yet struck. The hairs on the back of Childermass’ neck prickled. He pulled the covers tighter around himself.

“I think you’ve taken up quite enough of my time for one night, don’t you?” It was a tricky thing, talking down a magician — especially one with all the books of magic in the world to hand. If Norrell wished it, he could linger in the room for as long as he cared to, and there would be nothing Childermass could do about it. He kept his voice steady, as though there was no cause for alarm. All the magic in England might have been poised against him, but it was all in Mr. Norrell’s quivering hands, and Childermass knew Mr. Norrell all too well. “If you’ve something to say to me, you may bring it to me tomorrow.” 

He rolled onto his side, hoping he was imagining the sharp tilt of the room. “Good evening, Sir,” he said with a deliberate firmness. On the table, the pail of water rattled hard enough that Childermass was suddenly afraid it might unbalance and drench his cards. But after a breathless moment, it settled. The room fell still, and Childermass knew that now he was truly alone.


	3. Chapter 3

For all his bravado, Childermass did not sleep easily. When he woke, he felt wrung out. Glancing at his reflection in the water, he could not help but notice the heavy lines beneath his eyes.

What did it matter? He dressed with a savage impatience. Mr. Norrell did not employ him for his good looks. Mr. Norrell would prefer not to see him at all, in fact. Even during their most intimate moments.

He had not previously considered the events of two nights prior an intimate moment, but he supposed there was no better term for it. How amusing.

He had lain awake long after he had been left alone, turning over the events of the past few days, as though he were probing at a wound for sensitivities. It was a curious new sensation, this unbalancing of his relationship with Norrell. He had been so long in the man’s service and was so well acquainted with his limitations, that he had imagined himself incapable of being injured by them. It was not as though he were under any illusions about Mr. Norrell, after all, nor about the small measure of feeling he possessed.

No, he had gone in with eyes wide open. And yet, now he felt an ache. It was dull and relentless, careless of all of his cleverness. And it stung all the more for being so predictable and yet so unexpected. _An ill-mannered, half-domesticated servant._ For a man who claimed not to care very much one way or the other for Childermass, Mr. Norrell certainly knew how to strike at the heart of him.

Still, he had always known he was born to a life of small indignities. This was a little different than most, but he could bear it. There was still work to be done. He pulled on his boots and headed for the library.

Mr. Lascelles was in the midst of some discourse on the state of the publishing world and Mr. Norrell’s attention was entirely occupied as Childermass slipped in through the door and went to his desk. He took up a list of expenses that Hannah had drawn up for his examination and began to examine it. As far as he could tell, the household spent altogether too much money on silks and stockings and other delicate articles. He squinted at the listing, trying to imagine how many cravats Mr. Norrell might need in a quarter. As far as he could see, Mr. Norrell dressed much the same way from one day to the next, no matter how many new cravats and handkerchiefs were supplied for him.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Lascelles,” said Norrell, holding up a hand.

Lascelles, who was halfway through a torrent of invective directed against Mr. Murray — no doubt a speech that had been precisely calculated to impress Mr. Norrell — looked more than a little put out.

“Might I have a moment alone with Childermass?” 

There was a tremor in Norrell’s voice that pricked Childermass’ ears. Lascelles must have detected it too. For, sensing a weakness in Norrell’s resolve, he replied, “I am almost finished, sir.”

“It will not wait,” said Norrell. His voice was very small, but he sounded determined in a way that he usually did not. He would not look at Childermass. 

Lascelles smiled his most sugary of smiles. “But of course. I will be just outside if you have any need of me.” The look he shot Childermass on his way out might well have frozen the Thames. Childermass returned his gaze evenly and shrugged a shoulder.

When the door shut behind Lascelles, Norrell stared at it for a great deal of time. At first, Childermass supposed that he was gathering his thoughts, but when Norrell turned to face him, he looked as though he had just expended a great deal of effort.

“There,” he said quietly. “We might speak plainly now. I have muffled the door so he will not hear anything—” he paused, searching for an appropriate word, “—incriminating.”

“Speak plainly, then,” said Childermass. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. 

“I intend to,” Norrell said.

“I am listening,” Childermass said.

The silence stretched between them. At length, Childermass shattered it with a laugh.

“You are quite right, Mr Norrell. There is no danger of Mr. Lascelles overhearing anything incriminating. Truly, you are an impressive magician. You have made your own apology disappear!”

“You presume that I will apologise,” Norrell said with some irritation.

“I live in hope that you will say anything at all.”

Norrell sighed. “I was not considerate with you when we spoke yesterday. Whatever the circumstances we find ourselves in, there is no call for rudeness. I hope you know that I esteem you far more than a— well, I need not repeat myself, I am sure. But you must admit that you yourself put me in an uncomfortable position.” He exhaled, as though a great weight had been lifted from him. Finally he looked directly at Childermass. “Is that satisfactory?”

Childermass did not reply.

“If you are displeased with me for my feelings towards—” a pause. Norrell swallowed. “Whatever you may think about that, you may rest assured that I feel quite as you do. If you would like me better without such an affliction, comfort yourself that I would also like myself better without it. But a man does not shed his affections overnight, try as he might.”

“Not if he nurtures and cherishes them the way you do,” Childermass snapped. Norrell gave him a sharp look but he did not withdraw. “Not if he wallows in endless contemplation of what will not be.”

“That is not fair.”

“It is more fair than you deserve. And do not tell me that you of all men cannot let a person go. You never weep for Christopher Drawlight or Portishead. You forget your king easily enough. And if I were to pack up and leave, you might take a moment to commiserate that no one else can track down a book of magic so well, but still you would soldier on. Oh, but when it comes to Jonathan Strange, it is a different matter entirely.”

Mr. Norrell looked pained to hear Strange’s name mentioned. Good, thought Childermass viciously. If they were to have this out, they would do it properly for once.

“And I suppose you could be rid of your own feelings as easily as all that,” Norrell said, his voice weak.

“If it were necessary, I could. If it were for my own good and the good of everyone around me. Any one could do so if he chose, but you choose not to.”

“Well then why are you still here if I measure up so poorly against your standards?”

“I am here,” said Childermass, “precisely _because_ I am capable of putting my feelings to one side. My duty is here, whatever I may feel about you. I have seen it in the cards.” 

“Oh, yes, I should have known that the cards would be involved. I am not so blind to your own motives in all of this, Childermass. Your mystical cards and your Raven King and your private meetings with my enemies. My house makes a fine base of operations for you, and you know well enough that it will continue to do so. You need not pretend that your feelings are at stake in this.”

Childermass gave a shocked laugh. It was so unusual to hear Norrell admit to knowing any of the things that went on about him that for a moment he quite forgot the thrust of their argument. Norrell’s chest was rising and falling and Childermass felt the unaccountable urge to draw close and take hold of him.

Instead he said, “if you must know, I do not know exactly what it is that I feel for you.”

“You do not?” said Norrell.

“It seems I do not.”

“Why, nothing could be more simple. You are cross with me. You have been since yesterday morning, perhaps even the night before, but it was worse yesterday and worse still today. I have only myself to blame for that.” He paused, looking at Childermass with an expression of bemusement. “But it is not as terrible as I feared. I was sure you would have left my service before the dawn. And I felt certain we must have said enough between us by now to put an end to things.”

Childermass stared at him. At last he said, “well, it is as I have said. I am not a man to leave a task undone over a personal difficulty.”

Norrell gave a nervous sort of nod. Something strange appeared to have come over him. Whatever he had expected to come of this conversation, it seemed he had only been able to presume that it would end with Childermass either meekly agreeing to resume their previous way of business or leaving his employment entirely.

“You are right that I’m angry. It’s the rest of it that I cannot divine.” He flashed Norrell an unpleasant smile. “I will confess that I have not been plucking the petals from flowers over you or winding love-ribbons into my hair.”

Norrell did not look at all relieved, but he appeared to take the jibe in his stride. He inclined his head, indicating that Childermass should continue.

“But I will admit that I took you up on your request willingly enough.” Norrell looked for a moment as though he might interrupt, but Childermass silenced him with a glare. “And it _was_ a request — let’s not lie to ourselves. I must have told myself that I was doing my duty or something of that nature. But you and I both know that I have too much pride to be forced into a duty of that nature.”

Norrell looked appalled. Had it never occurred to him that an unscrupulous kind of master might well try to coerce his servant into such an act? Childermass sighed. Of course it had not. That was the privilege of the gentry. Norrell would never have to exchange his dignity for his next meal, or his principles for that matter. 

But on this occasion, neither had Childermass. He gave a startled laugh.

“I wanted to do it,” he said. Norrell’s breath caught at that, as though Childermass had said something beyond belief. It was an understandable reaction, since Childermass could not quite believe it either. “God help me, but I must have wanted it. There is no other explanation.” 

He stood up, fixing Norrell with a curious look. Norrell released a breath and took half a step closer. His chin tilted upwards and for less than a moment it looked as though he might have been expecting something, but then he dropped back into his customary posture. 

“Childermass,” he said. And then he seemed to run out of things to say. He looked as helpless as before, but now his voice was threaded through with something that might almost have been hopeful.

“I am even duller than I could have guessed,” said Childermass, half to himself and half to Norrell. “What a thing to want. I would do better to try and woo a thundercloud or a bust of Napoleon.”

There was a long silence as the two of them contemplated their unhappy situation. For his part, Childermass wanted nothing more than to be a great many miles away, preferably in the darkest corner of a country inn where no one might disturb him. The possibility that he might have wanted to amuse himself when he took Norrell up on his offer was one thing. But the notion that he might have wanted the thing itself — or perhaps even wanted Mr. Norrell — had shaken him unaccountably. 

As the silence stretched, Norrell shifted uncomfortably. “It is not true, you know,” he said in a small voice. “What you said earlier, I mean. If you were to leave my service, I could not forget you as easily as you imagine.” He stared at Childermass as though this was enough to convey some great depth of feeling. But when Childermass did not respond, he added, “I do hope you will not do anything rash.”

Childermass smiled bitterly. Mr. Norrell was not ordinarily given to pity, and he wore it clumsily. Somehow this was worse than his anger the previous night.

“You needn’t flatter me, sir. I’m not going anywhere, more’s the pity.” He moved for the door. “You may summon Mr. Lascelles back.”

Norrell made a hasty move to block his exit. 

“Do not order me about. And do not call me ‘sir’ when we are discussing this.”

“Of course not, Mr. Norrell.”

“And do not make fun of me. You think that I cannot tell, but I often can.”

“May I go now?” asked Childermass.

“That depends upon where you are going.”

It was a fair question. “The stables.” Norrell started at that. “Don’t panic, I’m not off on a trip. But Brewer needs tending and I need—” He did not know what he needed. He took a breath, trying to think of something he might say that would right the balance between them, for Norrell was looking at him in much the same way that he might look at a book that was about to be snatched from his hands. 

“All will be well, sir. Have I not served your interests faithfully for all these years?”

Norrell nodded, mercifully silent.

“Then trust me. I have watched the world from every angle and I have seen the way men rend their clothes and beat themselves to pieces over small misfortunes. I fancy myself a good deal cleverer than men of that sort, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Norrell. His voice sounded curiously distant. “Yes, you are undeniably sensible.”

Childermass nodded. The room felt stifling. Norrell watched him as he made for the door. He hoped, for an irrational moment, that Norrell might prevent him from leaving. A ridiculous thing to hope for, he thought as he opened the door and Lascelles sailed past him into the library.

* * *

Brewer snorted happily as Childermass stomped down to the stables. Light from the back streets streamed through the high windows and Childermass smiled despite himself. It was difficult to brood when a horse was glad to see you.

“Calm yourself, lad,” Childermass grumbled amiably, patting Brewer’s neck. He found a brush and set to work scrubbing him down. He was a good horse, and he had tolerated the move to London well enough. But Childermass knew from the way he picked up his pace on country roads and the way he turned his face to the wind and the rain that he, like all the rest of them, missed his home.

Brewer would not be deterred, nudging Childermass’ palm with an enthusiastic nose. Brewer was a good horse, fed and watered by half a dozen people depending on where and when he was stabled, but he was glad to see Childermass all the same. 

It was a pleasant thing, Childermass thought, inhaling the chilly London air, to be wanted even when you were not needed. 

Childermass was well used to being needed. He had secured his position by making himself indispensable. The question of wanting had never come into it, not in Yorkshire and certainly not in London. And that was well enough. He had never thought there was room for wanting between himself and his master: There was too much need wrapped around the two of them.

If anyone had troubled to ask Childermass what he wanted, even a few days previously he would have shrugged. He made a point of wanting very little: The restoration of John Uskglass. A solid pair of boots, decent tobacco and some time to himself. He would have been more surprised than anyone to learn that he wanted Gilbert Norrell, difficult, dry little man that he was, pinned breathless and wide-eyed against his own mattress.

But that was not true. Norrell had been even more shocked by the revelation. 

It was not worth thinking about. There were a thousand other things to worry about for the time being. The question of Imelda was settled for the time being, but there was no telling what would become of her as her abilities grew stronger. He could not even be sure that she and the vicar’s wife would have the good sense to keep her abilities under wraps. Rumours were spreading in the dark corners of inns. English magic was shifting, growing too wild and wide for one man to contain. A broken heart or two would make no odds once the whole world was split apart.

Childermass shivered. He brushed methodically, drawing the rough bristles in a soothing motion over Brewer’s neck until the horse was calm and breathing steadily. Brewer shifted under his palms, his breath no longer a sharp pant but a soothed rumble. “Good man,” Childermass said softly, pressing a palm to the horse’s side and feeling the trembling heat of him. There were some things that a man still ought to do with his hands.

A short cough behind him startled him. When he turned, Norrell was standing just outside Brewer’s stable, looking unhappily at his shoes.

“I do not know how you can bear to spend time in here,” he said. “The smell is quite unlike anywhere else in the house.”

This was a bold statement on Mr. Norrell’s part since there were a great many rooms in his house where he had never set foot. But it was certainly true that the stable smelled quite unlike the parlour, the library, the dining room or any other room where Mr. Norrell might be inclined to spend his time.

Childermass shrugged. He turned to face Norrell, his hand still flat against Brewer’s neck. “If the servants’ quarters are not to your liking, there are more suitable places for you to be.”

“But you insist on being here, rather than where you are required. And so I am forced to come running after you.” Norrell frowned. “I fear I may have stepped in something on my way. My shoes are quite ruined.”

Childermass looked down at Norrell’s shoes. They did indeed look a touch dirtier than usual. Norrell himself looked plagued with a misery far beyond the kind that could be explained by a pair of dirty shoes.

“Well, you have come all the way down here and risked your footwear,” said Childermass. “What is it that you need?”

“I need— that is to say, I have realised that I did not properly apologise to you earlier. Or not so well as I might have done, I believe.” Norrell twisted his hands together. His eyes were still fixed upon his shoes, and he looked so wretched that Childermass did not even trouble to point out that he had not, in fact, apologised at all. That he had, in fact, made a point of refusing to apologise.

Instead, Childermass said, “Out with it, then.”

Norrell flinched, but then he seemed to nod to himself. He looked up. “I am sorry. Truly. I was wrong to treat you as a servant in— in what has occurred between us. Or, at least, I was wrong to engage you as a servant and not as a man with his own mind and his own heart.”

Now it was Childermass’ turn to flinch. “We’ve been over this,” he said. “It’s done and over with now.” And then, because Norrell did not look satisfied with that reply, he added. “I am not so greatly injured as I must seem.”

“Perhaps not,” said Norrell. “But even so, you will allow me to finish. I will admit that I have taken you for granted in some ways, but in others I have simply assumed—” He broke off with a look of some consternation. “Childermass, you have never struck me as a man who might—” again, he broke off.

“For a man who spends so much time reading, you struggle to finish a sentence,” Childermass observed.

“You are impudent,” said Norrell.

“That I am.” Childermass took a step closer. Brewer gave a soft whinny but accepted the chill as he moved away. Norrell looked up at him, eyes widening. “I am impudent and I am disdainful and I will only be more so if you address me as a man, not a servant. For I bear a great many well-concealed grudges against you gentlemen and I bite my tongue much more than you think.”

“You will become quite unmanageable,” said Norrell, but he did not sound at all unhappy at the prospect.

“And when have I ever been manageable?”

Norrell exhaled, and by now Childermass was close enough to feel the air shift about them. 

“When I asked for your help, I suppose I believed — certainly I hoped — that you might be willing to indulge me,” he said at last. “That was why I asked. Whether you considered it a duty or a favour,” he made a dismissive gesture. “Well, that was your business. You always have some motive or other, do you not? It did not occur to me that you might agree to do such a thing because you wanted it.” 

“Of course it didn’t,” said Childermass, amused despite himself. “Ridiculous notion.”

“It is to me.” Norrell said simply. “It has seemed to me for most of my life that I am destined to want and want and always be without. This is quite outside my area of expertise.”

His eyes moved up and down Childermass’ body as though he were seeing Childermass for the first time. Childermass wondered if it was the first time it had occurred to him to look, or merely the first time he had given himself permission. He laid a hand on Norrell’s hip, wondering if such a simple touch was also unfamiliar, and Norrell’s whole body tensed at the contact. 

This was dangerous. For all of Norrell’s wide-eyed looks and nervous pronouncements, Childermass knew well enough that Norrell wanted something more than what he could offer. He had a queer sense of the world tilting about him, the out-of-control feeling that normally accompanied unknown magic. Jonathan Strange was still roaming the city, his grasp still tight around Norrell’s heart. And Childermass could not bear the thought of taking hold of something that might be plucked away from him at any moment.

Even so, despite that knowledge hanging between them, his hands were on Norrell’s hips and Norrell was looking up at him. He remembered what he had said to Norrell that night in the library. How he had provoked that sharp, scalded reaction.

“If I am honest,” said Childermass, “I cannot claim to be any more comfortable with desire than you are.”

Norrell would not meet his eyes. His hand plucked absently at Childermass’ sleeve but did not quite settle on his arm. “I suppose you will expect to kiss me now.”

“If you would like me to kiss you, you must ask for it.”

Norrell looked frustrated. He turned away. “I have never attempted such a thing before,” he said. He did not specify whether he meant asking or kissing.

“Very well then,” said Childermass, and he did not move. Instead, he traced his fingers over Norrell’s clothed hips, watching the man’s expression shift from guarded wariness to surprise. Outside, a carriage clattered across the square and Norrell jumped, pulling back. Childermass straightened, casting a cautious look at the wide gate that stood behind Brewer’s stall. 

“No one will have seen,” he said, breathless. A servant did not even have to hide in the shadows, after all. He was invisible by his nature.

“Even so,” said Norrell, his eyes lingering on Childermass’ mouth. “I do not believe the stable is the place for this.”

“Maybe not,” Childermass said, straightening. To his surprise, he did not feel stung. For once, despite Norrell’s withdrawal, it did not seem that he had quite pulled away. He allowed himself to watch, keeping his gaze unguarded, as Norrell put his armour back into place.

“No, this will not do at all,” said Norrell. He cast his eyes about the stable. “The smell, after all. And the dirt. There is a horse right there who looks as though he might kick me to death given the opportunity.”

Childermass glanced at Brewer, who was as placid as a horse could look. Then back at Mr. Norrell, whose eyes had settled upon something else entirely. Childermass followed his gaze to the workbench in the corner where Davey had laid out some tools, a few leather straps, a pair of worn leather gloves and a long coil of rope. His breath stuttered in his chest.

“Perhaps you might come up to my bedroom later,” Norrell said, his voice low and hesitant. He reached up as though he meant to touch Childermass, but his hand dropped. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder again and then moved to the bench. He gathered up the rope, winding it carefully around his arm as though he planned to use it in a complicated and fragile bit of magic.

“You might use this,” he said, his tone brittle. He looked up, peering at Childermass though his small blue eyes. He seemed braver than Childermass had ever seen him, there in his dirty shoes and with his arms full of rope. “If you would like to, that is.”

A dozen practicalities leapt immediately to Childermass’ mind. He would have to apologise to Davey later. Or else he would have to fetch in some rope to replace what was gone. He would need to find something to soothe a friction burn, for he had no doubt that Norrell did not know the slightest thing about what he was asking for. And he would have to find a way to ensure they would not be heard. These considerations clamoured in his mind for as long as he would let them, but they could not drown out the truth that hummed and reverberated between them, like the slow and undeniable harmonies of a long-forgotten hymn.

“Yes,” he said, and if his voice was a little shaky, it was worth it to see Norrell duck his head and give a relieved little laugh. “Yes. I believe I would enjoy that, sir.”

* * *

Mr. Norrell’s bedroom was not unfamiliar territory to Childermass. When a man was sick as frequently as Mr. Norrell and his business was as pressing, it sometimes became necessary for his most trusted advisors to visit him at his bedside. More than once, a chamber maid had called Childermass up to chase out a mouse, an operation that had to be conducted with the utmost secrecy for fear of Mr. Norrell finding out and becoming distraught. And on one memorable occasion, he had followed an impulse and caught Christopher Drawlight rifling through Mr. Norrell’s collection of Ralph Stokesey’s letters, presumably in search of long-outdated gossip.

This, however, was an entirely different state of affairs. Childermass knocked once and then slipped through the door without waiting for an invitation. The coil of rope was heavy under his coat. Norrell was perched on his bed, still fully dressed. He looked up sharply as Childermass entered.

“I see you have forgotten your place entirely,” he said, but there was little rancour in his voice, and his breath caught as Childermass approached the bed.

“Would you rather I stood outside your bedroom door for the whole house to gawp at?” Childermasspulled off his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. The coil of rope he dropped on the bedside table, where it lay between a glass of water and a small volume by Lanchester. Norrell’s eyes darted towards the rope but, to Childermass’s surprise, were drawn inexorably back to Childermass himself. Childermass smiled. “How was your afternoon?”

“Uneventful. I found my work came slower than usual. I must have been distracted.” Norrell’s hands shifted upon the bed.

“Distracted,” said Childermass. He moved closer and, when Norrell did not attempt to stop him, sat down upon the bed. He leaned closer. “What were you thinking about?”

“Oh,” said Norrell absently. His eyes were fixed upon Childermass’ mouth. “All sorts of things.”

Childermass hummed in agreement. He took Norrell’s right hand in his, turning it over, feeling the familiar way it tensed and then relaxed in his grip. Norrell was breathing a little louder now and Childermass allowed his fingers to tighten, feeling the pulse jump beneath them.

“I have brought something for you,” he said. Norrell glanced at it on the table and then back at Childermass. “It is a little softer than the rope from the stables, as I know you suffer from skin complaints. But it is strong and I have spent enough time at sea to tie a decent knot. If you ask me, I will make good use of it.”

Norrell exhaled shakily. His lips parted as though he might speak, but no sound came forth. Childermass bared his teeth and loosened his grip. “Come along, Mr. Norrell.”

Norrell nodded his head, half ducking and half acquiescing. “Yes,” he said, voice tight. “Do it.”

It was not precisely a request, but it would do for the time being. Childermass reached for the rope on the table. “Give me your wrists,” he said, and Norrell held out both hands, palms open, in a tense, mute offering.

“I cannot make you any promises,” he murmured as Childermass folded the rope and began to wind it about his wrists. “My first duty, you know, is to English magic. And to the ministers, perhaps.” Childermass hummed and concentrated upon the rope. Norrell continued, his voice growing lower and yet more urgent as Childermass worked. “I have a thousand responsibilities and my mind is occupied at all times. We are not quite at war, but we could be under attack at any moment. I am plagued with all manner of sicknesses at every time of the year. I will not be asked to put myself at your beck and call, no matter what you might expect of me.”

Childermass tightened the knot, securing Norrell’s wrists together. A trail of rope hung from his bound wrists and Childermass gripped it firmly. Norrell looked up at him, suddenly fallen silent. His chest rose and fell.

“You are not an unattractive man,” said Norrell, as though he had never realised it before.

“You are only saying that because I have you bound,” said Childermass, and Norrell released a shaking breath. Childermass pulled at the rope, drawing Norrell’s wrists closer and the rest of Norell followed, pleasingly and without complaint. It felt as though he had worked a spell: Norrell’s eyes had widened. His breath seemed more shallow than before. But there were no phantoms in the room, no unseen magicians. For the moment, at least, he saw no one but Childermass.

“I suppose you will expect to be kissed now,” said Childermass, because he himself was seized with a very great desire of his own. He reached up to touch Norrell’s jaw, his finger tracing over the vulnerable place where his pulse jumped at the contact. 

“Yes,” said Norrell, and he looked surprised to hear himself say it. “If you will indulge me.”

Childermass surged forward at that, seeking out Norrell’s mouth. He kept his other hand on the rope, feeling Norrell’s bound hands twitch helplessly as he forgot himself and tried to reach upwards. He teased Norrell’s mouth open with his lips and Norrell gasped under his mouth but permitted it. He pressed Norrell backwards upon the bed, yanking his wrists up over his head and watched as Norrell’s body shifted, fought and then settled, obedient and angling upward. He traced the pale skin that peeped out between Norrell’s cuff and the line of the rope. Norrell shivered under his hand. 

“Do you want this?” he asked. And then, because he was sick of the fear and upset, “do you want it from me?”

“Yes,” Norrell said as Childermass swung one leg over his stomach and leaned over him. He pinned Norrell’s shoulder to the bed with one hand while the other gripped the rope that bound his wrists. And “yes,” he said as Childermass tied the loose cord to the headboard. He shifted, restless, as his arms were stretched upwards and fixed in place. And he said Childermass’s name, all three syllables of it, as Childermass grazed his teeth against his throat. 

Childermass traced the path of Norrell’s pulse down to his chest, his hands working at buttons and laces and fastenings and hearing yes and yes and yes. When Childermass took more rope and wound it about Norrell’s ankles, Norrell twisted his head, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. But he said “God damn you, yes.” And then when Childermass leaned forward, took his face between his hands and kissed him again, he said, “God help me, yes.” 

Mr. Norrell said yes and yes when each ankle was secured to a leg of the bed. He said yes as his hands twisted and pulled at the ropes. He said yes as his hips bucked and the room shook with unspent magic. In this small room in this unforgiving city, with no whisper of Jonathan Strange or the Raven King or of any magician but Childermass, Mr. Norrell trembled and said yes. And when Childermass settled between Mr. Norrell’s legs and placed a hand on the waistband of his breeches and looked down at him, Mr. Norrell looked up and said, “Childermass, will you _please_.” And Childermass found that he could not deny him.

Afterwards, as their bodies cooled and the room vibrated around them, Childermass sprawled across Norrell and the bed. He reached up and found Norrell’s wrists, tracing the path of the rope and watching with interest as Norrell’s eyes fell closed at the touch. He seemed impossibly calm like this, his breathing growing slow and even as Childermass began to pluck the knots apart.

“Do you know,” said Norrell, his voice low and sleepy. “I can still feel it.”

“Hmm?” Childermass was working at the knots, but as the rope loosened, he could already see the hints of red it would leave behind. He brushed a thumb over Norrell’s wrist, unexpected tenderness warring with a possessive satisfaction. Was he a fool? He did not doubt it. But even a fool is occasionally rewarded.

“I still feel that something is on its way,” Norrell said. He watched as Childermass pulled his wrists down to his lips. His eyes traced the marks that Childermass had left on him, and his expression was unreadable. But he did not pull his hands free. “I had imagined it was— well, never mind what I thought. Now I think it is something much greater.”

Outside the fine brick walls of Hanover-square, the wind was beating against stone. The rain shimmered against wrought iron and hammered wood. Even in London, the small creatures of England were congregating— the rats exchanging rumours in their nests and the sparrows gathering in mobs across the roofs and chimneys. The city, in all of its ordered chaos, was growing imperceptibly wilder.

“Yes,” said Childermass. And then, because there were not so many secrets between them as there had once been, he said, “I think I can feel it myself. But I am not so convinced that it will all be bad.”

Mr Norrell’s shoulders stiffened. His eyebrows raised just a little and he opened his mouth as if to dismiss or disagree or disparage. But he caught himself in time and instead he took hold of Childermass’ hands, clasping them tightly and drawing them to his chest.

There was no certainty in this life, Childermass thought with grim humour as the room vibrated about them and the sun dipped lower in the sky. John Uskglass had a plan, whether they could understand it or not. He had seen a little of his destiny — part of it was entwined with Norrell’s, but not the whole of it. There was no escaping the future; it would come whether they faced it head-on or not, together or apart. Perhaps it would bring great sacrifice, as a king has every right to demand of his subjects. Perhaps Jonathan Strange would return to claim what Childermass owed him. Perhaps it would all, indeed, come to ruin. 

But the future would unfold at its own pace. For the moment, the room was warm and still. Norrell’s hands clutched him as though he were a thing worth holding. And for the first time in longer than Childermass could remember, he believed he had cause to be hopeful and glad.


End file.
